Capture the Flag: A Stretch of Scarlet
by AmethystWren
Summary: AU "The 100th Annual Hunger Games will require tributes to protect a token of their choosing. If this token is lost, destroyed, stolen or otherwise misplaced, and is not recovered by nightfall, they will perish by morning." It'd be easy to underestimate Calico, with her pigtails and her sweet smile. So she'll have to set that record straight. District 8 POV
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, just to clarify: this is one of three. Me and a friend came up with the idea while we were playing capture the flag in a PE lesson at school and it sort of developed from there, with a third friend falling into the mix and contributing even more ideas. The three of us each picked a district and we'll be writing about the same Games, but from the POV of three different tributes:**

**District 2- Bubbubboo - She's a little further ahead than me because she started sooner, but it's definitely worth a look at if you get chance. She also writes shorter chapters than me, so it shouldn't take you too long to catch up if you want to :D**

**District 7- EnglishGleek- Okay, this one hasn't actually been started yet, so don't go searching for it. But it'll be awesome when it has- she's been bouncing ideas off of me and they're all really awesome.**

**District 8- Me!- Yeah, you must've already clicked on this one if you're reading this, so... Hi? Reviews are awesome, just throwing that notion out there...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games or any places, ideas, characters or themes you may recognise from it. But my OCs are all mine.**

* * *

The ribbon factory is still shut, which is both a curse and a blessing. A blessing because it means I don't have to go to work after school, and a curse because of the circumstances in which it was temporarily closed for. I just pity the poor soul who has found themselves forced to pick bits of human hair and flesh out of the machinery.

My brother, Jute, doesn't work at the ribbon factory like Mum and me. No, he works at the same fabric dyeing place that Dad does. I've never been inside the large shed of a building, only ever peered round the door for a brief moment, but even so I know that they don't have the enormous machines we've got at the ribbon factory.

I'd be able to hear the whirring, so loud it's deafening. Indeed, if people in District 8 are fortunate enough to live into old age, they are often hard of hearing thanks to the sound of the factories in which they'd have worked in more or less from the moment they could walk.

Instead, I hear the slosh of the dye as garments are dunked into it, and the low murmur of chatter amongst colleagues. They can afford to chatter quietly amongst themselves; they don't have to yell over the top of an already unbearably loud sound.

The bell rings, signalling the end of the working day, and I make sure to step to one side so as to avoid being trampled by the rush of workers eager to escape from the warehouse behind me and get home to their families.

My lanky older brother spots me before Dad does and grabs his wrist, dragging him through the crowd towards me.

"Hey, Cal," Jute says, reaching out to tug on one of the two braids I tied my hair up into this morning.

I scowl at him; he knows I hate it when he does that. "Hello."

"Don't start fighting, you two," Dad says warningly. "I still have to walk home with the pair of you, and I don't want to find myself caught up in the middle of one of your arguments."

"Again," Jute adds, smiling goofily to make me laugh. It works.

"Alright, Daddy," I promise, lacing my fingers around his hand and smiling sweetly. "We won't, for your sake."

* * *

We get home to find Samite, the boy in my class at school who lives in the house next to ours, sitting on the doorstep. Our scraggly cat, Russell, who must be positively ancient in cat years, is curled up on his lap.

"Sammy," Jute teases as we approach. "You're house is number eight. This is six, remember?"

Sammy smiles good-naturedly. "Sorry." He apologises. "I just saw Russell here and decided to give him a cuddle. I didn't realise he'd fall asleep on me."

I find myself laughing at how uncomfortable our neighbour looks. "Yeah, he'll do that."

Letting go of Dad's hand, I head over to the doorstep and kneel down beside Sammy and Russell. Reaching out a hand, I stroke the mangy cat between the ears. He wakes up lazily and turns his head to face me, clearly upset about having his nap interrupted.

"Come on, Russell," I say, scooping him up and cradling him against my chest as I rise back up onto my feet. "Sammy has to get home."

"Indeed he does." Sammy confirms, standing and trying to smack the grey and brown fur off of trousers. "My mum is going to kill me."

"Good luck." I offer as he heads past me. I hear the sentiment echoed by my brother as Sammy sets off for his own house, number eight.

* * *

Sitting on my bottom bunk, I prise the hair ties out of my hair and run my hands through the soft brown waves in an attempt remove any trace of the braids they'd been in all day.

"Calico," A voice rumbles, low and menacing.

I know what's coming. I scream and dive under my blanket just in time for my brother to enter. Whilst I can't see him through my blanket, I can hear his footsteps as he approaches. The creaky floorboard groans under his weight.

"Hmm," He says aloud, pretending to sound thoughtful. "Where could she be? She couldn't possibly be… Here!" As he says the last word, he wrenches the blanket off of me and throws it to the ground.

I quickly sit up. "Don't, Jute. Please don't."

But it's too late. Before I have chance to run away, he's started to tickle me. I can't help but laugh, which frustrates me to no end because it only makes my already feeble attempt to fend him off even more useless.

"Stop it!" I manage to force out through my laughter. "Stop it!"

"Only if you feed Russell tomorrow morning," My brother continues to tickle me.

I take a moment to think about it, though that in itself is difficult when I'm still kicking uselessly at my brother, who is probably about twice the size of me. "Fine,"

"Thanks." Just like that, Jute stops tickling me and climbs up into his own bunk above mine. "Night, Cal,"

"Night, Jute." I grumble, getting out of bed so that I can pick my blanket up off of the floor.

The piece of fabric and I topple back onto my old, rickety bottom bunk together. Wrapping the threadbare blanket around myself, it doesn't take me long to fall asleep.

* * *

Reaping Day is also both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it's a holiday, which means I don't find myself so bored that I end up helping Mum with the washing because there's literally _nothing_ else to do, as has been the case since the ribbon factory incident about two weeks ago. A curse because it's Reaping Day, which is pretty self explanatory. Today, two of us will be setting off for the Hunger Games, and they almost definitely won't be coming back.

What makes it worse this year is the cryptic Quarter Quell reading that the president gave about a week ago: "In order that the districts remember that even their most valuable possessions are second to their loyalty to the Capitol, the 100th Annual Hunger Games will require tributes to protect a token of their choosing. If this token is lost, destroyed, stolen or otherwise misplaced, and is not recovered by nightfall, they will perish by morning."

It doesn't sound very pleasant, even by Hunger Games standards.

After breakfast, rather than let me braid my own hair, Mum tells me to sit in a chair. This is more or less a custom that the two of us have every Reaping Day. She'll fetch her special scarlet ribbon from where she keeps it, beneath her pillow, and tie my hair up into two bunches.

"It's lucky ribbon," She tells me as she works. This message, again, is something she makes sure to deliver every year. "So long as you have it, nothing bad will happen to you or anyone you love."

It's worked so far; I've never been Reaped, have I? And Jute is nineteen, so he won't even be in the lottery this year. He used to wear a length of the scarlet ribbon round his wrist each year, and it certainly seems to have helped him. And that's why I believe in the scarlet ribbon's so-called 'luck' unwaveringly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to everyone reading this :) It's very much appreciated. As for those of you who took the time to review, I shall reply to those in a sec :D**

**In other news, I think EnglishGleek plans on uploading the first chapter of her story today, which follows the tribute girl from District 7, so there's that. And Bubbubboo's tributes are currently on the train, because she's _still_ further ahead than we are here in D8 :(**

**But I'm catching up, I swear! I have most of the next chapter written already I just need to type it up!**

* * *

We hear the crowds gathered in front of the stage long before we see them. The town square is packed, as can be expected on Reaping Day, with all the children in District 8 aged between twelve and eighteen. Anyone who is either too old or too young to be counted amongst this bracket must stand either behind the area fenced off for them in front of the stage or else find a position in the surrounding streets; there's simply not enough room for them otherwise.

I'm forced to leave my parents and Jute in a crowded street nearby, somewhere that they can see one of the enormous Capitol televisions set up for the occasion, and make my way over to be signed in alone. The man tasked with this job is seated at a table strewn with papers and three large booklets bearing between them the names of every eligible teenager in District 8. The handheld device used to prick the finger of each prospective tribute and ensure their presence at the Reaping lingers ominously by the man's hand.

I join the back of the queue leading up to his table. All too soon, I find myself at the front the line, where I have to quickly snap myself out of the pleasant little daydream I had been having about ducklings so that I might minimise my chances of making a fool of myself.

"Finger," The man states tiredly. I hold out my left hand. He presses the device against my index finger and pushes the worn green button. There's a short, sharp, jabbing sensation as the tiny needle pecks at the flesh on the pad of my fingertip and then he's tossing the device back onto the table's surface.

"Name," He drones out. The idea that he has grown bored of his duty already is starting to seem more and more likely by the second.

"Calico Snyder,"

He flicks through one of the booklets in front of him and eventually locates my name. Taking my hand, he guides my index finger towards the booklet and pushes my bleeding fingertip against the box beside my name.

"Sixteen year olds are over there." He tells me with a nonchalant wave of his hand. I thank him before setting off in the indicated direction, not one hundred per cent sure it's the right way but too shy to go back and ask the man for a clearer instruction.

Luckily, the broad sweep of his hand _does_ send me the right way and, once with the other girls my age, it doesn't take long for Drill and I to locate each-other. My best friend greets me in her usual fashion- by pulling me into a tight hug. When she eventually releases me, she flicks one of my pigtails gleefully and then turns to face the stage, to see if anything of interest is happening yet.

I glare at the back of her head before taking a step forward, to stand beside her. "You know I don't like it when people do that."

"Why do you think I do it?" She quips just as Ceres, District 8's illustrious Capitol escort, takes to the stage. The square falls silent as the entire population, both of District 8 and the rest of Panem, wait for her to say something.

Our escort giggles. "You all look really funny."

Ceres is fairly young, having only finished training to be an escort just in time for last year's games. She was placed with 8 straight away as our previous escort, Iunia, had been promoted to 'a better District'. Despite her apparent ditzy nature, I don't think Ceres is a bad person. I just think she's a little oblivious to the world outside of her personal bubble. Even so, the Capitol last year seemed to love her vibrant personality, and despite her current lack of a victor, her spirit doesn't seem to have dampened in the last twelve months at all.

She gives the usual speech, the one that it's obligatory for the escorts to give each year; the speech that talks about 'honour' and 'sacrifice' and 'bravery', but never mentions the words 'slaughter' or 'murder'. The video from the Capitol is played, as is also the custom, to remind us why we hold the Games each year, of the debt that the Capitol insists that those of us born in the Districts must annually pay.

In a fashion that goes against the usual convention of the Reaping, Ceres decides to choose the male tribute first as 'a special twist'. She must be looking for ways to make this more exciting for the rest of Panem, crowded around their television screens right now, as we aren't really helping in that sense. We're all just staying quiet and staring at the stage in front of us. I'm starting to see why Ceres greeted us by telling us that we 'look really funny'.

Her gloved hand dips into the bowl containing the names of all the eligible boys in our District. I find myself, for the first time since I was a very little girl, able to be ever so happy that it is impossible for her to pick my brother. Last year, his name was still in the mix, but the lucky ribbon saved him from being called.

"Sammite Carnahan,"

There seems to be a bit of a scuffle over on the side of the square where the boys of Reaping age have been assembled. Eventually, Sammy stumbles out of the crowd in a fashion that seems to suggest that he was pushed. Standing in the aisle between the boys and girls, which leads up to the stage steps, he glances around curiously. His hand makes its way to his brown hair, which he pushes out of his face. Though this action takes but a moment, his hand remains in his hair as he heads up onto the stage, only falling away when Ceres moves forward to shake his hand and ask for volunteers, of which there are none.

"You're something, aren't you?" She tells him. He shrugs, clearly puzzled, and I don't blame him; she never tells him quite what he is.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Ceres beams at us once again and shuffles toward the bowl of girls' names.

_I won't be you,_ I repeat, over and over. _It won't, it won't, it won't._

"Calico Snyder,"

My stomach seems to plummet towards my feet, though the sensation lasts but a moment. Glancing around, my eyes fix on Drill's; blue-green and so very familiar. My best friend smiles broadly, reassuringly, and nods her head tentatively towards the stage.

My feet seem to move of their own accord. It's almost as though my brain ceases to take anything in, just for a moment- the near silence, my footsteps, the lady scurrying across the stage to meet me... The world comes rushing back the moment I see Ceres' hand in front of my face, cloaked in a glove of golden yellow and fringed by green feathers. Swallowing, I glance up and, for a fleeting second, share a look with the Capitol escort who is smiling at me so patronisingly. Her eyes a brilliant shade of purple, certainly not natural.

Slowly, I reach out and take Ceres' gloved hand in my own, which are ridiculously small and fragile-looking by comparison. She shakes vigorously before releasing me and taking a step back. Unsure of whether or not to just stand there, at the top of the stairs, I look to Sammy for support. He motions slightly with his hand and I scurry over to stand beside him at the front of the stage.

Mayor Thisby comes forward. He stands beside Ceres and rattles off his usual speech, but it lacks the lustre and enthusiasm it once possessed when I was younger. It's been tired and forced ever since his own son was reaped two years ago, because little Tailor Thisby didn't make it home again.

As the sad man speaks, I glance at the boy next to me, my next-door neighbour. He shoots me a small smile, similar to Drill's yet somewhat less noticeable, and goes back to staring at his feet. I find my own gaze settling on the sky. Usually I'd look for shapes in the clouds, but there aren't any clouds today. It's as though they were all scared and so fled the area. I don't blame them; if I could, I'd probably do the same thing.

Despite the lack of clouds, I refuse to take my gaze from the sky until I absolutely have to. There's no way I'm looking at the crowd assembled before me, only a fraction of the people who will are watching this moment if we count those viewing it live on their TVs across Panem. All of that's far too daunting to even consider thinking about.

All too soon, Ceres is practically pushing Mayor Thisby back to his chair on the right of the stage and telling Sammy and I to shake hands.

Figuring that now is the moment I should stop staring up into the achingly empty blue void that is the sky today, I turn to face him without daring to look at the vast crowd watching us and hold out my right hand. He takes it in his left and shakes once, lacking the energy that Ceres had pumped into the gesture earlier.

I slide my hand out of his only to grip the skirt of my pastel blue Reaping dress. Sharing a quick, reassuring glance, we let Ceres usher us into the Justice Building which had been looming behind the stage all along.


End file.
